


Ravens in Winter

by Sinope



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:58:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinope/pseuds/Sinope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first shall bury his heart in a dark wood beneath the snow, yet still feel its ache."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ravens in Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes are taken from Christian Pitois's _The History and Practice of Magic_. Many, many thanks to Jack of None, who provided handholding and feedback from beginning to end.
> 
> Written for prodigy.

 

 

_Would you prefer to dream of a woman you have seen but whose love is more than you can hope for, according you her favors? and would you like to renew this illusion as often as you like? Here is how you can do it. Take two ounces of scammony [convolvulus] and Roman camomile, three ounces of cod bones and tortoiseshell, and heat them until they become powdery. Mix the whole with five ounces of male beaver fat and add two ounces of oil of flowers made from blue scammony picked in the early morning in the first days of spring; boil this composition with an ounce of honey and six drams of dew gathered from poppy flowers. . ._

Imagine, if you please, a pane of glass, rippled with age and glittering from the fine lines of an early winter frost. As the palest beams of dawn cross its threshold, they refract onto a desk covered in sheets of faintly translucent paper, then alight onto a hand with faintly translucent fingers, scribbling upon them furiously in a crabbed, girlish script. Just as he had done for the past seven years, Gilbert Norrell was writing down his dream.

(Bells. Wedding bells tolled clamorously: the quick tinkling bells of a child who never lived to see his naming-day; the deep, ponderous bells of an elderly lady, she who once loved a soldier-lad who left her with three babes and no ring. The bells tolled in the darkness of the forest canopy where he stood; his hands felt numb and caked with frozen dirt. A bird swept up from a hidden perch, piercing the leaves and disappearing from view. All this walking had made him weary, but if he stopped, he would have to look at the one by his side. The scent of lightning and ice filled his nostrils, sharp and unyielding. If only he could find a shovel.)

By the time that Norrell finished writing, the sun had already begun to melt the frost-crystals on the window, blurring them into wet streaks of what a more poetically-inclined man might call tears. Norrell set down his quill, breakfasted on well-browned toast and strong tea, and reopened his book to yesterday's chapter of Belasis. Hours passed; pages turned. At ten o'clock, a raven perched on the yew in the lawn and began to caw.

Norrell furrowed his brow. Goubert, he was sure, said something of this sort of occurrence, a brief incantation that might be recited with the application of a certain herb, in order to reveal a glimpse of the Raven King's own thoughts(1). By ten-thirty, when the book and necessary ingredients had been procured, the raven had long since departed. Norrell began to close the book -- he had _hoped_ to reach Belasis's well-regarded passage on the significance of particular bodies of standing water -- but a glint of light refracted through his glasses, making him squint and pause. The return of a bird would not be so unlikely, after all, and he had often wondered whether the frequently-reported failure of this spell might be due to the frequent modern substitute of smallage for true satureia. After due contemplation and preparation, Norrell began the procedure.

The Raven King did not appear. In fact, nothing seemed to happen whatsoever, save a scant increase in the sun's intensity -- hardly surprising, given the swift approach of mid-day. With perhaps the slightest tinge of disappointment, Norrell returned to Belasis, and the remainder of the day passed without incident. His uncle returned from his hunting-party at even-tide, and Norrell paid him the respect due to an uncle who may well choose you as his sole heir, thanking him dutifully for use of his library. After a lengthy dinner, far too gluttonous for Norrell's tastes, he returned to the North Wing, kissed his bed-bound mother, and retired to his bedchamber. Norrell was nineteen years old.

* * *

_At one time a secret doorway in the rocks was said to open on the first of May. Those who had the curiosity and the courage to enter arrived by a subterranean passage on a tiny island in the middle of the lake. . . . Fairies offered the visitor flowers and fruit, charmed him with delightful music, unveiled the future to him, invited him to remain with them as long as he liked; they merely required that he should take nothing away with him when he left the island. It would come to pass that some careless individual took no heed of this warning and wanted to take away with him, as a souvenir of his adventure, some flower of miraculous beauty. But scarcely would he have crossed the enchanted threshold than he went raving mad._

When Norrell entered his bedchamber, a young man sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed. He set down a book bound in gnarled black leather and leaps up, extending a hand to Norrell. The thick black hair shadowing his face could not dim his black eyes, gleaming brighter than candlelight. "I've looked forward to meeting you, Gilbert," he said, and smiled.

Norrell glanced at the candle in his own hand(2), then back at the young man. "Are you a . . ." His voice trailed off, weighing the appropriate forms of address for a fairy.

"I'm a traveler, no more. I heard great things of your uncle's library, and when I asked to see his wondrous collection, he told me that all things literary were your domain." He glanced down at his hand, still extended. "I'm John."

Slowly, Norrell reached out to grasp it. John's fingertips touched his, cool and firm, before shaking his palm more firmly. "I do not recognize that book from my uncle's library," Norrell said.

"Your eyes are keen. This is from my own collection; I only arrived today in the evening, and look forward to examining his books tomorrow, at a time of your convenience." John lifted the book, giving Norrell a glimpse of the interior -- an apparently hand-written manuscript. "I find Catherine of Winchester's _Memoirs_ to be a delightful companion on my journeys."

"I was not aware that Catherine left behind any written records beyond her _Book_ ," Norrell said stiffly.

"Then perhaps you will care to read her tomorrow, while I explore in hopes of similarly fine discoveries. Her views in the _Book_ , though certainly of use to the student dabbling in the magical arts, are considerably more nuanced in the _Memoirs_. One finds certain views that would doubtless have startled her Aureate peers, were they more widely known."

Norrell sat down in the closest chair, half-automatically, and closed his eyes in thought. "I wonder, then, whether Pale's own writings reflect her public or private views. If, of course, the manuscript is genuine, in which I am naturally hesitant to believe."

"Are you familiar with Catherine's passage on the cycles of the moon?"

"Of course. It remains one of the chiefest examples of a notable magician falling into the astrological folly, and drawing along far too many followers in her wake."

John turned to a page near the end of the book and passed it to Norrell, then returned to the edge of the bed. The presence of another in his own bedchamber, coat sliding against the bedcover with a gently silken rasp, caused an uncomfortable weight to lurch in Norrell's stomach, but curiosity overcame him; he focused on the neatly printed Latin. "A charlatan familiar with Catherine's views might have inserted sly references to further astrological claims," John explained, "but precisely the opposite is the case. Here, she reveals a far more remarkable claim: the cycles refer not to the celestial spheres but to the womanly wax and wane of magical proficiency in a lady-magician."

"Ah, now you have disproved the very point you sought to illustrate. Catherine of Winchester, so respected for her feminine discretion and respectability, could not possibly have written on such an . . . obscene subject."

John chuckled softly and leaned closer, turning the page of the book in Norrell's hands. "Then let me offer you another example."

Those who have had acquaintance with a young man of nineteen will be unsurprized at the swiftness with which Norrell embraced the young stranger. Indeed, to one so starved for companionship, so bereft of equals in mind and not merely status, the span of a single conversation can transform utter strangers into dear friends. Even Norrell, for whom the word "friend" had little connotation, was cognizant of the unexpected pleasure of the encounter, and when John at last departed for his own room, Norrell felt a warm flush in his cheeks as he contemplated the next morning. He supposed that one would call it a smile.

* * *

_They are great musicians, and are to be seen sitting in the middle of rivers playing on a golden harp which has the power to influence all nature. If one wishes to study music with them one must first of all seek an introduction to one of them with a black lamb and promise him that at the Last Judgment God will judge him like other men. It is said that once two children were playing in front of their father's house which stood beside a small stream, when a Nokke rose out of the water and began to play on his golden harp. "Dear Nokke," said one of the children to him, "what is the good of your beautiful music? You will never go to heaven!" At these words the Nokke burst into tears._

That winter was an icy one in Yorkshire; snowfall fell upon snowfall, turning the outside landscape into a fantasy of blinding white. Norrell's uncle stomped about the house irritably, grumbling at the weather, badgering the servants at their chores. Yet Norrell was barely conscious of any of it. Eight blissful weeks, from St. Andrew's to Candlemas, he studied with John, moving through each book with wonderful rapidity. The opportunity to compare observations and elucidate difficulties with a fellow reader brought new depth, even to books he had previously rejected as unworthy of close study. As his delight grew, so did his joy in John's presence; the two became nearly inseparable, reading the same text side-by-side and discussing it until all the candles had burned down to stubs. For the first time in his cold and pallid life, Norrell was happy.

The night of Candlemas brought a wind that clawed through every crevice in Hurtfew, chilling Norrell's fingers as he wrote down notes from the pages of _The Language of Birds_. "I can feel you shivering," John said with a fond smile, and wrapped his arm about Norrell's back. The gesture, at which Norrell would have instantly recoiled just a few months prior, instead sent a surge of warmth over Norrell's skin.

He paused from his writing and looked up, watching John's face for a moment: hard, angular cheekbones, pale-pink lips, and the eyes that still seemed to glimmer beyond proportion to their surroundings. Norrell had never felt a deep appreciation for beauty, nor mourned the absence of such sensitivity. Still, of all the wonders in that ancestral library, he felt that John's face had to be the most beautiful. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again and paused until John looked at him with bemused curiosity. "I have become . . . very fond of you," Norrell said at last in a nervous voice. "I hope you do not mind my saying it."

"Why should I mind it? Your companionship has brought my visit more delight than I had hoped to expect."

"Yes, indeed, indeed," Norrell said hurriedly. He stopped again, hesitating, and finally grasped John's hand between his own. "What I mean to say is this: you have not mentioned your future obligations to me, and although I should never wish to impose on you, I hope that you will consider . . . staying. Here."

John looked down at their entwined hands, then up into Norrell's eyes. "There is nothing that would please me more." Then, to Norrell's great and utter surprize, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips.

To you or I, who have seen a thousand kisses between happy couples, and perhaps been fortunate enough to receive our own share, the kiss of one previously considered a friend might cause alarm or dismay. To Norrell, whose sickly childhood had been spent with a retiring mother and an absent uncle, and who had no experience with our modern romantic novels, the act came as a revelation of pleasure. He paused a moment, cataloguing and absorbing the remarkable feeling of soft lips against his own, and drew John closer to repeat the experience.

Throughout the remainder of that evening, I do not believe that a single further page of Lanchester was turned. Though Norrell considered himself a beginner at the magical arts which comprised his study, in the art of love-making he proved himself an utter novice -- and John an eager tutor. Respecting the privacy which both no doubt would desire, I will say only this: as Norrell bade John good-night that eve, tenderly stroking the smooth plane of his cheek, he wondered for the first, and perhaps only, time in his life whether the odd trembling in his heart might be love.

* * *

_They are believed to have no soul, or at least no immortal soul; but, as the children born of an elf and a man share the natures of both father and mother, they only have to be baptised by total immersion in holy water to obtain an immortal soul. Certain traditions speak of these marriages as examples of enduring affection; but it appears that however happy they may be at first these unions always have a tragic end._

The next morning, the storm had drifted on to trouble another estate, leaving behind a sheen of glossy ice atop the layered snow. Yet Norrell's blood flowed so hot and joyful that morning that when John suggested a walk outdoors, he hesitated but a moment before agreeing.

The two walked together down paths snaking through the snow-drifts, slipping on occasion and bumping into each other in the way young lovers are wont to enjoy. As they walked further from Hurtfew, the snow crushed beneath their boots grew thinner and thinner, and Norrell began to catch glimpses of wet black bark on the trees they passed. Soon, the woods grew thick and bleak around them, though no forest so dense existed near Norrell's home. You may rightly wonder why Norrell continued unawares as familiar surroundings vanished from around him, and I can only tell you that he had never walked hand-in-hand down a path before, too busy treasuring the firm clasp of John's fingers to concern himself with their destination. Only when the trees formed an arching cathedral over their heads, blocking out the icy sky, did an airy peal of laughter in the distance break his reverie.

Norrell looked around him, and his breath caught. "I do not know this place," he said. "Surely we cannot have been walking for many hours?"

John turned to him, releasing Norrell's hand. "We have walked back to my home. Do you not recognize it? You have seen it in your dreams."

Norrell bit his lip, and a raven flew upward, bursting through the canopy with a mocking caw. "I . . . I cannot remember my dreams."

"You know them very well, Gilbert Norrell -- just as you know that 'John' is neither my only name nor my true name." Even as he spoke, the young man before Norrell appeared to change -- his hair wilder, his eyes brighter. A wind blew through the tunnel of tree-branches, carrying the scent of lightning and ice.

Norrell shook his head. "I should have known," he muttered to himself, "I should have --" Abruptly, he looked up. "Are you leaving me?"

"I have been away too long already. Three days and three nights have passed among my people, and they will have begun to grow restless. But I would be pleased if you would join me. You will have no need for texts nor notes; the very earth and air and oceans will be our library and our books." He reached forward and traced the line of Norrell's lips. "I would have you by my side."

Norrell stepped backward, shivering. "You speak of a world unknown to me. My books are all that has been dear to me. Why must I abandon them?" He hesitated another moment. "You cannot be him. The Raven King would not while away his days indoors with a book(3), and he would not -- could not -- have interest in a magician as poor as myself."

"I have my own reasons for my actions, Gilbert, and you would do best not to question them. If you choose to believe that I never loved you, then so be it. I shall tell you only this: should you walk away from me today, then you will never love again, and all whom you depend upon will betray you in their time."

"I cannot." Norrell's teeth chattered, and his heart hurt so fiercely it seemed to tear itself out of his chest. "I cannot. You know that I cannot."

John regarded him carefully. "Yes. I know." He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Norrell, kissing his lips thrice. On the third kiss he vanished, leaving a cluster of ravens fluttering around Norrell's head. Once they flew away, Norrell opened his eyes and found himself on the doorstep of Hurtfew.

He stood there for a moment, trembling, before he opened the door. His path to the library was mechanical, and his lips continued to chatter as he searched the shelves blankly for Sutton-Grove. Only when he sat at his desk and began to read down the list of approaches for obfuscation spells did he begin to breath normally, clasping the quill tightly between his fingers. The most curious thing, he kept thinking to himself, was how short-lived the pain had been -- really quite trivial, considering the pleasant companion he had lost. All that remained was a quiet, empty space where the pain had once dwelled.

* * *

(1) In fact, Norrell was misremembering this particular charm. Goubert included an obscure spell that he labelled as used for communication with John Uskglass; the spell was a perfectly simple means of communication over distance, used in the King's time to consult with distant representatives. The presence of a speaking bird provided a favorable mien to the spell. Once the original purpose of the spell was forgotten, however, many interpreted it in the more mystical sense of guidance from the departed King. As the Raven King's appearances in our world are rare indeed nowadays, the spell inevitably failed to produce any results, though one or two magicians attempting it reported that the cawing of the raven appeared to be sounding within their own head.

(2) Some authorities report that natural flame assumes a bluish tinge in the presence of a fairy. As these authorities generally stem from the Argentine age or later, they are scarce to be relied upon, but Norrell may be forgiven for returning to the superstition in a moment of youthful uncertainty.

(3) In this, Norrell was not precisely correct. Contemporary accounts record that John Uskglass did learn to read and write English, albeit late in his life. However, no mention of his owning a library or seeking one out is to be found. The brief mid-seventeenth-century blossoming of a market for scraps of paper "from the Raven King's own library," to be used as magical talismans, is hardly worth mentioning as a reputable indicator.

 


End file.
